Whispering neighbors, left and right
by crackinthecup
Summary: It is a night of festival in Nargothrond, but a certain pair of Fëanorions have no wish to wait until they are sequestered in their cousin's private chambers to immerse themselves in the evening's entertainment. Curufin/Finrod/Celegorm, a.k.a. the Nargothrond clusterfuck. Implied, and unrequited, Celebrimbor/Finrod.


**A/N:** Apologies to W.H. Auden for misappropriating a line in his poem _Now the leaves are falling fast_ as the title. I will say nothing about my pet theory that one particular stanza in said poem is referencing public handjobs because I can almost hear all the lit teachers I've ever had collectively gasping.

* * *

The babble of voices swelled, amplified into a buzzing din by the slick rock of Nargothrond's walls. Around the shallow pool sunken into the middle of the great hall, laughter and song and the tapping sound of bare feet on the stone floor crescendoed as libations were passed around and overflowed the mirth of Finrod's courtiers.

("Impractical," Curufin had scoffed when Finrod revealed to him the designs for the pool, an oval basin carved into the rock, to be periodically refreshed with bucketfuls of water from rushing Ringwil far above amidst rolling hills. "Without the slightest use."

"I think it quaint."

Curufin had barely squashed the impulse to roll his eyes. "Always you squander your time, cousin.")

At his high table Finrod was plucking at a cluster of white-and-red-speckled peonies he had gathered earlier that morning in observation of the festival of Nost-na-Lothion, the Birth of Flowers. Curufin had accompanied him; he had watched Finrod idle in the meadows and crouch down to sniff at the flora of Taur-en-Faroth with a sneer cracked into his features and words of _work_ , of _your ridiculous dalliance, cousin_ , frothing on his lips; but he had not returned to the halls of Nargothrond.

And now he sat at Finrod's right, fingers curled around the stem of his third goblet of wine, and watched the dancers as his cousin watched him.

"We cannot spare materials to reinforce the ceiling, as per your solicitous suggestion," Finrod mused, lifting his own cup to his lips. A blush mottled over his cheeks, only partly caused by the haze of alcohol.

Curufin turned to look at him, one eyebrow fractionally raised. "It is structurally unsound," he enunciated in a voice suited to remonstrance, not conversation. "If it is not reinforced—"

"Ceilings and cave-ins again?" Celegorm asked with a laugh that was too harsh to be amicable. Finrod almost startled when he clapped his hands on his shoulders. Almost. He had forced himself to become used to not knowing when, or from where, Celegorm would stalk out.

Curufin spared but a glance for Celegorm, a flash of something passing between them, making Celegorm's mouth twist into an animalistic grin, all danger and sharp incisors. Curufin leaned into Finrod, mouth to his ear, breath billowing hotly against his skin. "But it is not _ceilings_ that hold your attention, is it, cousin?"

Curufin's left hand slipped beneath the table. He traced light fingers up Finrod's thigh, and Finrod's minute gasp merged with the ebb and flow of chatter.

Behind him Celegorm gave a low chuckle. "No, brother, it is not ceilings at all." His hands grew heavy on Finrod's shoulders, fingers scoring into the flesh beneath his robes. The thought of the bruises he would sport on the morrow made heat flood Finrod's groin. The fingers on his thigh quested upward, still maddeningly light, and when they brushed against his rapidly stiffening length, Finrod let the peonies drop and grasped at the edge of the table.

"Our golden Ingoldo," Celegorm scoffed. "What would they say if they knew?"

"Would you like that, cousin?" Curufin hissed into his ear, hand deftly parting his robes. "Would it get you hard to know that they are watching as you writhe your hips beneath the table, as you so desperately mewl for my touch? _Oh_ —" Curufin's fingers closed around aching flesh. Finrod's thighs parted, invitingly, and Curufin cupped him more fully. "I daresay you would, cousin. You have come prepared after all," he sneered, giving a sharp tug, and Finrod's hips rolled into that pressure, his moan hooked somewhere in his throat.

"Brother mine," Curufin drawled with a smirk hinting at the edges of his lips, "dear Findaráto has so _fervently_ hoped for our attentions. He is bare beneath his robes. Tsk, so ill-befitting of a king, would you not say, Tyelko?"

"A king, brother?" Celegorm snorted. "More like a little slut. _Yes_ ," he jeered at Finrod's sharp intake of breath, "look how he ruts against your hand. _Just_ like a bawd."

Finrod clamped his lips against the unlordly little noises brimming in his throat, but still Edrahil, sitting closest to them on Finrod's left side, turned toward them with a concerned frown.

"Are you unwell, my lord?"

Beneath the table Curufin squeezed even as he leveled Edrahil with an impassive stare, and Finrod smiled in the elf's general direction, if a little recklessly.

"There is no need to worry about me, Edrahil. It merely seems that the wine is especially potent this evening. Do you happen to know its vine of origin? I do think it might be one of the bottles brought from over the sea."

"Well done," Curufin mocked, only for Finrod to hear, just as Edrahil replied, "I'm afraid I do not, my lord. I could inquire of the cellars, if you wish."

"Would you, Edrahil?" Finrod gave another placid smile, focusing on breathing. A nail pricked at one of the veins swelling his arousal. With a nod Edrahil rose and strode away from the high table.

"Well done indeed, pet," Celegorm murmured, spite laced like venom through his voice.

A hissing breath stuttered from between Finrod's clenched teeth. Curufin had settled into a rhythm, a fast, harsh rhythm that set ardor scorching within him. His knuckles showed white from how hard he was gripping the edge of the table.

Celegorm made a show of shifting, withdrawing from Finrod, and his hand deliberately tangled in the Nauglamír, yanking it against Finrod's throat, leaving him choking, gasping for breath.

"My apologies, cousin," Celegorm grinned, giving the necklace another jerk.

Finrod panted through the rush of blood in his ears, his thighs falling a little further apart. He pressed his lips together to stifle a whimper. By now his hips rocked into Curufin's touch with every pass of his hand down his length.

"Did you touch yourself, thinking of this, picturing yourself spilling in front of all your people?" Curufin continued as Celegorm's hands returned to his shoulders. Though the Nauglamír now drooped loose about his neck, his breaths puffed into the air all ragged and shallow.

"Yes." Barely a whisper on his lips.

"And you did not invite us to watch? You have no manners, Ingo," Celegorm clucked his disapproval. "Perhaps you should leave him hanging, Curvo, for sparing no thought for his cousins."

"No – _please_ ," Finrod breathed, almost too low for them to hear. Almost.

"What was that, Ingo?" Celegorm asked with feigned innocence. "You will have to speak up, cousin. We can barely hear you over this bloody din."

" _Please_ ," Finrod near keened, bucking up into his cousin's suddenly slow, suddenly torturous touches, craving more of that delicious friction. His legs were lewdly spread by now, knee knocking into Curufin's, and had anyone looked, surely his state would have been apparent.

Curufin's fingers stilled completely, and a frustrated whine stuck to Finrod's lips at the waning of sensation. "One of your few good ideas, brother. Perhaps I should." His fingers tapped ponderingly against Finrod's length.

"Please, I—"

"What?" Celegorm snarled, face suddenly dark. "Do you want to come here, in front of all your court? Truly, Findaráto?" Scorn dripped from his lips.

Finrod gasped as Curufin dipped his thumb over his tip and the wetness there. He repeated the motion, and Finrod struggled to prevent his eyes from fluttering shut, thrusting himself more firmly into that fleeting touch. Without looking at his brother, Curufin seemed to reach a decision. He tightened his grasp on Finrod's cock once more, and in a few flicks of the wrist had his cousin trembling in his chair with the high of release. Swiftly Finrod bowed his head, hair tumbling across his flushed cheeks so as to cling to some last vestige of decorum.

Curufin withdrew his hand; he wiped it clean of the stickiness of seed on Finrod's robes with mechanical efficiency, and swallowed a mouthful of wine. Celegorm unhanded his cousin and with nary a word he stormed from the hall.

Above the rim of his goblet Curufin watched him with narrowed eyes. He ignored Finrod slumping in his seat with a sigh, curiously probing at the white stains on his robes.

Nobody had seen, except a pair of silver eyes bright with pain that should not have been there at all, and Celebrimbor trailed his uncle out of the hall, to his own quarters.


End file.
